


Longest Way Round is the Shortest Way Home

by sealdog



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Rhys sees Jack without his mask // The first time Jack lets Rhys see his unmasked face</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a reply to an anon on tumblr who asked if Jack ever shows Rhys his face. Kindaaaa in the same verse as Quid Pro Quo but you don't need to have read it!

The first time Rhys sees Jack without his mask, it’s during one of their regular baths.

Rhys wouldn’t say he _lives_ for those baths, because that would be really sad, but the truth is, he kind of does. It’s a good way to unwind, especially when work gets too stressful, and he often looks forward to the quiet, familiar comfort that bath time has come to mean for him.

It’s become almost a ritual for them, really.

Rhys runs the water for the bath while Jack gets dinner, because if Jack had his way, the water would be practically boiling. For someone who runs as hot as he does, Jack seems to have a fondness for ridiculously high temperatures, and Rhys has taken over the thermostat and other temperature things in self-defense. Bath times would be one of those temperature things.

He strips and gets in first, too tired to wait for Jack to come back with food, and settles into the bathtub with a sigh. The water is warm, and smells pleasantly like the soap Jack prefers, clean and faintly medicinal. Tilting his head back against the rim of the bathtub, Rhys closes his eyes and relaxes for what feels like the first time all week. Hyperion has been pushing harder and harder to release newer, shinier tech to compete with Maliwan’s latest range of e-car tech, and Rhys never wants to see another line of code for the rest of his life.

Okay, maybe just like a week or two.

“Getting started without me?” Rhys opens his eyes to see Jack entering the room, stripped down to his shirt and sweater and pants, and holding a plate of fruit and chips.

“You were taking too long.” The water sloshes around Rhys as he sits up in the tub and reaches forward with grabby hands for the chips.

Because Jack is an _ass_ , he deliberately sets the plate down where Rhys can’t reach it from the tub, and lingers as he strips out of his clothing, pointedly ignoring Rhys’ feeble attempts to reach for the plate.

“Jaaaack, c’mon!” Rhys gives up and flicks water at Jack’s hair, snickering when Jack, finally stripped down to nakedness, turns at just the right time to catch the flicked water in his face.

Scowling at Rhys, Jack takes a chip from the plate and crunches down on it while keeping eye contact with Rhys. He takes another chip, and holds it out, just out of Rhys’ reach, and says, “What’s that, pumpkin? I can’t hear you over the sound of these delicious chips you can’t reach, mm.”

Rhys rests his chin on the edge of the bathtub and gives Jack his best pout, the one he knows Jack _really_ likes.

“Ugh, okay, fine, don’t give me that face.” Jack rolls his eyes and brings the plate to the tub, setting it down on the small stool next to the tub that’s there for precisely that purpose.

He slides into the water in front of Rhys, cackling when the water sloshes up into Rhys’ mouth just as he opens it to eat a chip and makes him splutter and smack at Jack.

“C’mon, budge up, move those giraffe-legs of yours.” Jack nudges Rhys until they’re both lying in the tub, Jack’s back to Rhys’ chest, and his head against Rhys’ shoulder. Rhys wriggles his arm out from under one of Jack’s broad shoulders so that he can continue reaching for the chips, but is otherwise content to stay as arranged, Jack’s heavy shoulders and body a comforting weight holding him down while the water settles around them.

They lie like that for a while. Rhys alternatively feeds chips and slices of fruit to Jack and himself, enjoying the quiet sounds and sensations of water lapping against their bodies and the bathtub, and the familiar feel of Jack’s teeth and tongue against his fingers.

Eventually, Jack sighs and turns his head so that Rhys can’t really see his face when he glances down.

“Hm?”

“It’s nothing, shush,” Jack reaches up with one hand to tilt Rhys’ head away to face the stool with the plate of food. “Do me a favour, keep looking over there, kay.”

Jack’s voice has that edge to it that Rhys has come to realise means he’s not interested in their usual banter, so Rhys merely hums in agreement and continues eating his chips, face turned away.

“…Thanks, kitten.”

Despite his obeying Jack’s directions, Rhys can’t help but watch avidly out of the corner of his eye, curious as to what Jack might not want him to see.

That is, until he hears a small snick, followed by another, and another, and realises that Jack’s hand, on the side that Rhys isn’t facing, is undoing the clasps of his mask. Faint guilt, and an immense sense of…pride? of pleased surprise, washes through Rhys at the idea that Jack trusts him enough to go unmasked in his presence.

Well, in his _waking_ presence, anyway. Jack has taken to sleeping curled up against Rhys’ back, which is nice and all, but sometimes, when Rhys wakes up and tries to turn to face Jack, he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder and a “Not right now, kitten.”

So Rhys averts his eyes, and continues to pick at the chips in silence.

It comes as a surprise then, when Jack’s hand comes up to intercept Rhys as he brings a chip up to his mouth. Rhys has avoided offering food to Jack, unsure if Jack wants him to, but before he can ask, Jack’s hand is guiding Rhys’ down to his mouth, and a familiar tongue is flicking out against his fingers as Jack eats the chip.

Letting out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in, Rhys huffs, and says, “That was the last chip, thanks very much.”

“I know, why else would I take it?” Jack’s voice is as smug as ever, and Rhys kicks at him in mock reproach as he continues to feed the fruit to Jack.

His gaze wanders around the bathroom idly, until a sharp blue line catches his eye. Frowning, he turns towards it, and it takes him a long while to realise that the blue line is coming from a reflection of Jack’s face. Jack’s _unmasked_ face.

Startled, he fumbles and almost drops the melon piece he’s holding, and Jack has to catch at his wrist to save the melon from tumbling into the soapy water.

“Something wrong?” Jack’s voice is sharp, his shoulders tense, and Rhys exhales, and forces himself to relax.

“No, nothing. I just remembered I forgot to send Henderson a copy of the signed papers from today’s meeting.” Rhys pats at Jack’s chest soothingly. “D’you think he’ll mind if I send it to him tomorrow instead?”

Rhys watches with relief as Jack’s shoulders slowly untense.

“Nah, that moron can deal with one or two late papers. S’not like he reads it right when he gets them anyway,” Jack snorts. “C’mon, melon me.”

“Wow, I can’t even tell if that’s supposed to be an innuendo. You’re getting soft, Jack.” But Rhys feeds him the melon anyway.

He tries not to look at the reflection that Jack probably hasn’t realised is there, but he can’t help but flick glances over. It only shows him a segment of Jack’s face, the left side, and Rhys’ eyes linger over the unfamiliar stark blue scar running at an angle down the familiar cheek. Jack's fingers rub idly at the line of the scar, and Rhys wonders if the skin there feels different

When he sees Jack's eye in the reflection open, he hurriedly looks away, but not before he catches a glimpse of a milky, red tinged surface where he's so used to seeing green.

“Gimme a sec,” Jack grunts, and then there are familiar clicking sounds before Jack sloshes up into a sitting position, and turns to face Rhys, mask back in place.

“C’mon, kitten, let’s go get some proper food.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the canon-typical violence tag comes in, just fyi! it's mostly off-screen but y'know, just in case.

The first time Jack lets Rhys see his unmasked face is...not a time that Jack tries to think about too much.

It’s a messy thing all around, but hey, that’s what happens when jackshit wannabes try and get at him through what’s _his_. Yunno, you’d think Atlas and Dahl would be good enough examples to all those idiots out there who think Handsome Jack needs to be taken down a peg or two, but Jack’s learned that you can just never underestimate how _stupid_ people can be.

This time, it’s an attempt on Rhys, of all people. Like, seriously. Why do people think it’s okay to try and get at him through other innocent people? This is exactly the kind of imbecilic, primitive, _bandit-like_ behaviour Jack’s trying to stamp out, and he just doesn’t get why people won’t get with the times already. It’s cute, don’t get him wrong, all these pinheaded numbskulls squawking about “free choice” and “liberty”, and it’s _really_ entertaining to shoot them in various body parts, and watch them screech and run around (or not, hah!) in pain, but still.

Still, most of them aren’t idiotic enough to go for Rhys, not after that one incident with the heads strung up. Jack’s just relieved that news of Angel has been kept quiet enough that the last attempt to kidnap her had been, what, four years ago now? Good.

Anyway, when Jack’s secretary knocks at his door tremblingly to say, “Handsome Jack, sir, there’s a message from someone who claims to have Rhys…”, he just groans long and loud, using all those deep-breathing techniques Nisha says helps with the anger. But he still feels it bubbling beneath his bones, a gritting, sawing kind of sensation, the need to go and take Rhys _back_.

So he does.

It doesn’t take him long to find Rhys; the tracker that Jack had included in Rhys’ neck tattoo has proven itself to be a frickin’ fantastic investment, multiple times over, and it comes through again this time.

He doesn’t take a car, because everybody knows what his cars look like. Instead, he brings a troop of his best minions, fast-travels to the nearest station, and walks his way through the deserted area (why do these idiots always make a base in deserted areas? It’s almost like they _want_ him to make them scream. And seriously, way to make themselves look suspicious as hell, good job on doing half of Jack’s PR work for him) to find the underground tunnels where the latest group of morons have holed up.

The good thing about fast-travel stations is, well, they’re fast. Obviously. But the quickness of the travel coupled with having to actually walk like a plebe always means that the red anger in him gets all nice and stoked, so by the time he reaches the front doors of the place, he’s ready to have some _fun_.

\---

After all the commotion and the whole going to the trouble to send Jack a message shebang, you’d think these piss-for-brain bandits would actually be prepared, but it’s almost a let-down how pathetic their firepower is.

…Wow okay, he really hopes he just caught them unaware or something because if _this_ was the best they had to offer, it’s a really frickin’ good thing he came to put them out of their misery.

The joy of watching bandit heads blow up (pfft, the way they always look so _surprised_ , right before their eyes bug right out of their heads, ohhh man, it never fails to crack him up), is normally enough to soothe the raging red that washes over his vision, but this time it’s tempered by the nagging need to make sure that Rhys hasn’t been harmed. The last time some idiot had tried to capture Rhys, he’d gone and detached Rhys’ right arm, and not even properly, which meant a whole week of Rhys moping around the penthouse and at work with only one arm, all morose and that had _not_ been fun. At all. Not even when Jack had offered to do all the work and just let Rhys lie there.

Still, Jack’s minions spread out and do their work quickly, and it doesn’t take long before one of them is calling him, stuttering and worshipful just the way he likes them.

“S-sir, Handsome Jack, y-your Rhys, he’s uh-”

Ignoring the man’s feeble attempts at guiding him through the tunnels, Jack strides on, barking at the various stationed minions who all jump and point him in the right direction. Man, has he got them trained well. Good job, self.

When he ducks through the low door and into the sparse, dimly lit room, there’s a familiar figure curled up in one corner.

“Rhysie, babe, I’m back!” Jack calls out, stepping forward with his arms spread out. He’s expecting Rhys to uncurl in relief and to give him that familiar, half-exasperated, half-fond look and say, “Don’t call me that,” but to his surprised discomfort, the curled up figure just curls in even tighter.

“Uh, Rhys?” Frowning, Jack slows down to a stop next to him. Is he- Is Rhys trembling?

Dropping to a crouch beside Rhys, Jack places one hand on Rhys’ back, only to get knocked over as Rhys turns and flings himself at Jack violently, scrabbling for his neck, normally warm brown eye red-rimmed and wild, and the blue of his echo-eye alarmingly dead and black.

Confused, Jack holds Rhys off. Normally, his heavier weight and broader shoulders would give him an advantage over Rhys’ slimmer body, but the way Rhys is snarling and scratching, frantic and desperate, puts him off balance, and it takes embarrassingly long for his instincts to kick in and for him to get Rhys’ struggling form pinned down, arms held down at his sides and back to Jack’s chest.

“Calm _down_ , kitten,” Jack pants into Rhys ear, before snapping at the hovering minion nearby to shut the door and piss off. Beneath him, Rhys is still struggling, but his efforts are weakening, and Jack hears a sob. Confused, he loosens his hold, and Rhys scrambles away from him, turning his face away.

“Rhysie?”

“Don’t- don’t call me that, I don’t know how you got one of his voice modulators, but you _don’t_ -you don’t get to call me that, not in his voice.” Rhys’ voice is muffled into his arms, but there’s an edge of real anger in it that makes Jack pause. But not for long.

“What the hell, pumpkin, it’s just me, the crap are you on?” Scowling, Jack goes forwards to kneel in front of Rhys and tugs his hands down so that he can see his face.

It’s unsettling to see Rhys with his echo-eye dark, but Jack shakes off the weird feeling to give Rhys a good hard look in the eye. Or at least, he tries to, because Rhys steadfastly refuses to meet his gaze.

“It’s me. Jack. The one and only, handsomest man alive, your idol, giver of great blowjobs, et cetera. Nobody else. Did they give you something, aw crap, I knew I should’ve left one of them alive to torture-,”

At that, Rhys laughs shakily, but his eye continues to slide away from Jack’s face, refusing to focus on him.

“You’re very good, much better than the previous one. You almost sound like him. The blood was a nice touch.” Rhys waves a trembling hand, not quite touching Jack’s face.

“Previous one?” Jack snarls, feeling the bubbling rage in him swell, overwhelm.

“Yeah, but you can tell your boss or whoever to fuck off, I’m not telling you _anything_.” With that, Rhys turns his head away deliberately.

“Oh, _kitten_.” The rage in Jack abates a bit at the sight of Rhys being his stupidly loyal and royally stupid self. Goddamnit.

“Look, it’s me. Just me, I promise.” Jack racks his brain for some way to prove it. “Okay, remember, just two days ago, you and I brought Angel to the planetarium, and she pointed out all the mistakes in their maps?” Jack grins at the memory, and is relieved when Rhys' head tilts towards him slightly.

“Yeah? And remember, last week, we used your favourite buttplug, and I spanked you so hard you started crying and came twice before I could even get into you?” Jack huffs out a short laugh. Man, that had been _fun_.

There’s a faint flush over Rhys’ cheeks now, but he’s finally turned and started looking at Jack, looking over his face and chest and arms. Uncertainly, but at least he’s _looking_.

An idea strikes Jack, one that he would normally dismiss immediately, but something in him stops, and says, _why not_?

“Look, Rhysie,” Jack exhales. “I’m gonna take my mask off, kay? Would a fake-me do that?”

“Would the _real_ you?” Rhys retorts, but his eye is now steady on Jack’s, curiosity and anticipation making his gaze look more… _correct_ , even with the wrongness of his dark echo-eye.

Jack doesn’t reply. Instead, his hands go up to undo the clasp at his chin, and then at his temples. He takes a deep breath before taking the mask, moving it off and away.

Without the mask, all his left eye can see of Rhys is a blurry, misty blob that blurs more as his eye begins to water, and he quickly closes it to look at Rhys out of his remaining good eye.

Rhys’ gaze flicks tentatively over his closed eye, and the goddamn scar, and Jack doesn’t move an inch.

“J-Jack?” Rhys’ voice is tentative. “Is that really-”

Jack lets out a relieved breath. “Yeah, it’s me, pumpkin, just me.” He goes to put the mask back on, but a cold hand, familiar from nights of turning around only to jolt awake at the freezing touch of Rhys’ cold feet and hands, comes up, and Jack stills, hyperaware of Rhys' hand so close to his naked face.

Rhys’ hand is gentle on his cheek, and so are his lips when he bends forwards to kiss Jack, right where the scar curves, where it always burns and itches the most.

Jack stays very, very still. The ever present prickling sensation in the scar is quiet for once, and he imagines he can almost feel Rhys’ lips, familiar and sweet, resting against the dead skin that covers the scar.

“Thank you, Jack,” Rhys’ voice is quiet, and his hands go to take Jack’s mask from him to place it over Jack's face, fingers fumbling at the unfamiliar clasps.

Jack slowly helps him click it back into place, before standing up and giving Rhys a hand up, which he takes.

Together, they make their way out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm ssealdog on tumblr come say hi!


End file.
